by Duncan James
***
Major Bill Clayton has been enjoying a quiet Saturday afternoon, in much the same way that he enjoyed any lengthy period away from the office. Since he was widowed a few years back, he had determined never to get morose, and always to keep himself occupied. It didn’t do to dwell too much on the past, and as he had no children of his own, he busied himself looking after other people’s, in a remote sort of way. He had always wanted kids, but what with his turbulent military life, and his wife dying so tragically so soon after they had married, it was not to be.
So there he was, trying to get an old clockwork steam engine to work again. The main spring had gone, but he thought he either had a spare somewhere, or, if not, could shorten the broken one a bit to make it fit again. It might not run for so long between winds with a shortened spring, but what small boy who’d never had a train set before was going to notice that. Winding it would be another problem. There wasn’t a key, but he’d face up to that when he had to. Probably a spare somewhere. He remembered that his uncle had sent him a couple of spares a short time ago. If not, he’d just have to make one. He’d done that before, many times.
Bill Clayton enjoyed working with his hands. It gave his brain a rest, although it also gave him a bit of thinking time when he needed it. The Army let him use a spare garage round the back of the Officer’s Mess, and this was now his workshop - his toy hospital. Every year, he managed somehow to collect and repair enough toys to fill a five ton truck, which, at Christmas, did the rounds of orphanages and the children’s wards of local Hospitals. Not that he went with it. Catch him dressing up as Santa Claus? No thanks! But the Army got lots of good publicity out of it - hearts and minds stuff - which is why they didn’t charge him for using the garage.
And he enjoyed the solitude. Only now and then did someone bang on the garage door, usually clutching a cardboard box full of broken bits and pieces, and other things which just needed a touch of paint, and even more that were beyond his skills to repair, and which got carefully taken apart for use as spares. He enjoyed rummaging around to see what challenges the box contained for him. He could even manage soft toys, although he had to get help for that. But there was a pleasant old biddy who worked behind the bar in the Officer’s Mess, who was quite handy with a needle, and she could usually manage to get the odd ear back onto a rabbit, or an arm on to a teddy bear. She was quite good, too, at making a dress for a naked doll when the need arose, thank goodness. He could never do that, and it would be a waste to throw the thing away. But he preferred boys’ toys, if he was honest.
So there he was, gently taking this old Hornby tin-plate engine to pieces, listening to quite a good rugby match on the radio, when there was a thump of the door. More work, he thought. He was right, too, but it wasn’t the sort of work he was expecting, or particularly wanted. It was the Duty Officer.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but you’re wanted on the phone right away. Someone from London. They’re hanging on.”
Clayton swore quietly under his breath, got the grease off his hands with an even oilier rag, and followed the Duty Officer into the Mess.
He took the call still wiping his hands down the seat of his trousers. He was supposed to be better dressed than this in the Mess, he thought, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed.
It was the Prime Minister’s Office. The Prime Minister was on his way back from Washington, said the duty chap in London, and would like to see Major Clayton, please, in Downing Street around mid-day tomorrow, if that was possible. And, by the way, did he happen to know where Mr Anchor was? The Prime Minister rather wanted to see him as well, at the same time, but the said duty officer hadn’t yet managed to track him down. The people at Stormont were being particularly slow this afternoon, it seemed, and really ought to be able to contact Ministers straight away if they’re wanted, don’t you think?
“Leave it to me,” said Clayton. “I think I can find him. We’ll be there tomorrow.”
The Downing Street chap thanked him awfully. Clayton hung up, and said “Bugger!”
He went back to his room, and picked up the phone. He got hold of James Anchor first try.
“Your people at the Castle have been trying to find you,” he said. “And Downing Street thinks it’s a disgrace that they can’t get hold of Ministers when they’re wanted.”
“Well, I’m not duty Minister this weekend, but I did tell them where I was going,” replied Anchor. “At least I think I did. I certainly told someone. What do they want, anyway, and how do you know!”
“It’s my job to know - that’s what I’m paid for. Anyway, our presence has been requested again,” replied Clayton. “Weaver passed a message when he left the States. He wants to see us at mid-day tomorrow. Shall I fix it?”
“Would you mind?” asked Anchor. “You know the calibre of people we get on duty over the weekend - we’d probably end up in Berlin or somewhere.”
“Leave it to me,” said Clayton, for the second time that afternoon. “Nine o’clock plane out, and last plane back be all right?”
“Sounds fine if you can fix it.” said a grateful junior Minister. “Do you suppose we’ll get lunch?”
“Not on the nine o’clock plane out of Aldergrove, you won’t.”
“No, no - I meant in Downing Street. It was pretty good at Chequers, I remember.”
“Different place altogether,” replied Clayton. “The Navy used to do the catering at Chequers. Downing Street is contractors.”
“Sounds like a sandwich in the ‘Red Lion’ again then, if all else fails.”
“What about buying me lunch instead in that posh restaurant of yours in the House of Commons?”
“Not open on Sundays. What will you tell the General?”
“With any luck at all, I shan’t have to tell him anything,” said Clayton. “He’s in Wales for a break this weekend, and the Colonel’s away shooting poor bloody pheasants. God willing and a fair breeze, I should be out and back again before they notice.”
“Your lucky day,” responded Anchor.
“Not from here, it isn't. But I can’t keep dodging off to see the PM without someone finding out soon. I’ll have to warn Weaver that I must tell the boss what’s going on.”
“Tricky. Are you on a secure line, by the way?”
“I doubt it,” replied Clayton. “And I know you’re not, because I know where you are.”
“I won’t ask how! See you tomorrow, then,” said Anchor.
Clayton tidied up, and walked across to the Headquarters to see the duty Corporal in the Transport Office.
“Evening, Major. How can I help?” he said, standing up.
“I need two seats on the 0900 out of Aldergrove to Heathrow,” replied Clayton.
“What day, sir?”
“Tomorrow. And back tomorrow, too, on the last flight out.”
“It’s a bit short notice,” said Corporal Harrington, sitting down again. “There’s plenty of room on Monday’s - I checked it out earlier this morning for someone else.”
“Tomorrow,” demanded Clayton. “Please.”
“You and who else, then, sir?”
“Mr James Anchor, Minister of State, Northern Ireland Office.” replied Bill Clayton.
“At least I can off-charge his seat,” said the relieved Corporal. “I suppose there’s no chance of getting a reason for your trip this time, is there sir?”
“Not a hope,” replied the Major.
“The auditors are beginning to get quite stroppy, you know.”
“Tell you what, then,” suggested Clayton. “Put it down as ‘liaison’.”
“But that’s what you always say.” complained the Corporal.
“That’s because that’s what it always is.” explained Clayton. “Liaison. In London. We’ve been summoned,” said Clayton, trying to be helpful.
“Ah,” said the Corporal. “Then if I can say by whom, that’ll keep them quiet.”
“Well, you can’t,” retorted Clayton. “Liaison in London will h
ave to do - again.”
The duty Corporal sighed. He knew full well that Clayton took priority over just about everyone, and he knew why. But he did wish it wasn’t always him on duty when the Major strolled in.
“If the auditors give you a hard time, refer them to me, OK?” offered a helpful Clayton.
“Thank you, sir. Tickets at the BA check-in tomorrow, then, by 0730. If there’s any problem, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Corporal. I look forward to not hearing from you!”